In Strange Places
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: Kenny isn't happy.  He doesn't remember ever really having been.  How's he going to fix this problem? He's not sure, but he'll start with everything Stan has. Rating may go up.
1. What You've Got

_I have a good feeling about this one._

_Thanks to my beta __**Lady Nightspike**__ and my bestest friend, __**kyleisgod**__. _

_Standard Disclaimer: I don't own South Park. _

It's disgusting.

Stan sits there, Kyle on his left, Wendy on his right, and he's smiling. His body is easy, shoulders loose and feet planted at a graceful distance apart—like he's sitting on a fucking throne, admiring his kingdom with that benevolent look on his face. Every inch of him is just radiating contentment. Meeting his eye, I wonder with a touch of bitterness what kind of _perfect_ thoughts he's thinking.

Maybe he's thinking of Wendy, and how they're going to have a huge white wedding (with Wendy? What else?), honeymoon in Tahiti, make a bunch of kids (they'll have Stan's eyes and Wendy's smile), and be together when they're eighty years old, sitting on rocking chairs and still holding hands like lovestruck teenagers. Maybe Stan's smiling because he's dreaming about a future with Wendy, with no reason to believe those dreams won't come true. She places a chaste, affectionate kiss on his temple, and he gently tucks a strand of her hand behind her ear. It's quick and tender, like they are trying to sneak it in when no one's looking. Kyle notices however, and snorts at them, but he's just playing. Stan's happiness re-radiates off Kyle like the fricking greenhouse effect.

Or maybe, Stan's thinking of his loyal best friend. How in rain, shine, snow, sleet, hail or buffaloes from the sky, Kyle Broflovski will always be right at his side, ready to listen when Stan needs a sympathetic ear, always willing to at least try to understand. Maybe Stan's smiling because he knows he has a wingman no matter what he wants to do.

How fucking wonderful it must be, to be Stan Marsh. To live in those thoughts that make his blue eyes glow calmly, like the slight heat from a candle. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he has everything he could possibly want.

I have to wonder if it's because he actually…_does_. I am tired of my sick guessing game, trying to put faces on Stan's thoughts. It's not fair. It isn't Stan's fault I'm not above this…pettiness, though it isn't my fault either. I still feel guilty with my poisonous thoughts. I don't have to like it, but I don't want to ruin it for him.

Cartman yells in German at some kid on his Xbox live, and I don't want to watch anymore, so I move to the kitchen. "Water," I mumble as an explanation; no one is listening.

Cartman's house is warm, even in the middle of January. Any other day, I'd just be grateful to be out of the snow. Even with jealousy pushing hotly under my collar, I don't want to disturb my friends. I yank open a cabinet and the glasses clink mildly as I take one down and grip it. White knuckled as I clench my fist around the cool cylinder, I wonder why _I_ can't just be happy with what I have. Why Stan's contented smile, filling the other room with enough happy vibes to choke on, makes me so sick. Wendy's laughter tinkles over the countertops, Stan's reply rumbles in tow, and the sounds churn in my gut. Staring at the crack along the ceiling, I trace over the veiny imperfection with my eyes and try to focus on nothing at all.

It occurs to me that I am being unreasonable. I wonder if I were sitting where Stan is, in Cartman's green easy chair, pretty Wendy with her velvet voice and smooth curves perched on the armrest, steadfast Kyle with his clever witticism and infinite overbearingness on the floor, cross-legged at my feet…if I'd even look the way Stan does. Because I doubt it. It's probably an inner peace thing. Some kind of zen. Another secret Stan knows that I can't hope to.

Then (irony hates me), Stan comes into the kitchen. He calls back to Kyle ("Your mom, dude! You know I ain't good at basketball! Doesn't make me less of a man! No YOU are! Pussy!"), and I push my empty cup under the faucet, fill it with water, clench my teeth. I don't want to snap at him. I just want to be alone with my thoughts.

"Sup, Kenny?" He yanks open the fridge and shifts around inside it, searching the shelves. I force my mouth into a relaxed grin and take a long drink before answering.

"Not much," I slip my tongue lazily around the words. The implication left for him that there's nothing to say here.

"Cool," he answers anyway, oblivious. Coming up with a half-eaten bowl of red Jello, he bumps the fridge closed with his hip. I watch him over the rim of my glass, and he transfers his weight awkwardly to his other foot.

"So," he begins, and the lump in my stomach lurches. He's not letting me off the hook. "What's going on?" his tone is friendly and interested, "you look kind of…bent, dude." I shrug, trying to skirt the weight of his question.

"Same old," I say. None of it has any meaning. I'm dodging, and he's trying to reach through because he doesn't _know_ he doesn't _want_ to know. The pitfalls of being a nice guy like Stan; he can't understand you can't fix everything by caring.

"Okay," he nods, and I'm relieved, but also disappointed. Now that he's giving up, I almost wish he'd—

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I tell him. Stubborn because I don't have a better answer.

"Cool," he stops pushing. I glance over at him, and he meets my gaze with probing eyes. I boldly let him. My thoughts are indecipherable; he won't find anything there.

"You okay about Bebe?" he's guessing, but I'm surprised. Bebe and I broke up a month ago, and even though I hadn't been thinking about that, I didn't expect him to bring it up.

"Yeah," I repeat, and reassure him with a smile.

"Good. She was a bitch anyways," Stan's voice is good natured, brotherly. I chuckle and nod.

"A hot bitch," I joke, and he smiles as he sticks a spoonful of Jello into his mouth. I feel my resentment begin to dissipate in his presence. Stan cares, and he doesn't mean any harm. I know I should be a better friend.

"Stan?" Kyle comes into the kitchen and nods to me in greeting without really looking over. I suppress the urge to scowl, immediately remembering why I didn't want to be around this. Stan can't leave a room for five minutes without a search party coming after him.

I wonder if I died for good, how long it would be before someone even _noticed._

"Cartman's being a dick," Kyle grumbles, swiping Stan's spoon and raising it menacingly. He spears the Jello and jams an aggressive mouthful between his lips. I swirl the water around in my glass, silently waiting for a chance to slip away unnoticed. With Kyle's entry, I can't hope to hold Stan's attention anyway. I'm just an extra presence in the room now, uncomfortable and unwanted.

"Cartman's always a dick," Stan shrugs agreeably. Even though it's not exactly the most astute or comforting insight in the world, Kyle noticeably relaxes and nods, good mood restored. I'm watching them at this point; no longer a part of the action. Just two eyes, given audience to The Super Bests and the super exclusive Kyle and Stan show. But Kyle is blocking the path to the doorway, and leaving might draw their attention and pity. I don't want their fucking pity. So I listen to their conversation and hope whatever they are going to talk about leaves me space to disappear into.

"So," Kyle's voice becomes serious; there's definitely something way heavy hiding in his tone, "did you ask her?" Stan steps closer and strains his eyes, re-checking the atmosphere to make sure no unwanted presences are privy to what he's about to say. I nod when he finds me again, reassuring him I'll keep my trap shut. He replies in kind, shaky and grateful, before turning back to Kyle.

"No, dude," he says in a hushed voice, "I don't….I just don't know how to do it. What if she—"

"She what? You've been going out seriously for almost five years now. She already practically lives at your house. Just yesterday I found tampons in your desk drawer, for God's sake. Is it that big a deal asking her if she wants to move in for real? It's not like there's any chance she's going to say no, anyway." Stan glances back over the living room like it pains him to do so.

"Shh, dude, she'll hear you," Stan's voice is an octave higher, pitched with nervousness. Kyle just rolls his eyes, but Stan continues, "And it is too a big deal! What if she— "

"She won't," Kyle assures him, clapping a hand on Stan's shoulder and meeting his nervous gaze with huge confidence. Stan falters, searches Kyle's face for a few moments. Apparently having found what he needed, Stan drops his shoulders, and he's agreeing.

"Okay," he answers like he's steeling himself, "I'll ask her tonight."

"You're asking Wendy to move in with you?" I interrupt stupidly, something aching in my chest. Stan and Kyle both turn to me with identical surprised expressions. They'd quite obviously forgotten I was there.

"Yeah," Stan recovers first, "I love her, dude." He's so sure of it, and he clearly means every word. It's in his nervous voice, quick and low like it's a big secret, but the edges all soft with feeling.

"Sex is killer then, eh? Wanna make sure she's in your bed every night?" I tease reflexively. Stan gives me an odd look and bites his lip.

"It's more than that," he says quietly, and I instantly feel like a dick. Kyle subtly shakes he head at me in reproach, adding his disapproval to my already stinging conscience. Why do I always wreck good things?

"Sorry," I mutter, and search for a better way to apologize, "no, I know. You guys seem really happy." I offer Stan this sentiment with a thumbs-up and a crooked smile. He responds with brightness that isn't at all artificial.

"Yeah?" he asks, "you think she'll want to?"

"Definitely," I tell him, smooth and quick. Kyle's arm goes around Stan's shoulder instantly.

"'Course, dude," he adds like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "you know that. It's Wendy we're talking about. You guys are already practically engaged. You'll see." I can practically feel Stan's relief; Kyle's faith is all the reassurance he needs. Kyle continues to encourage him and I can think only one thing:

I want that.

I want a girlfriend to worry over, to wonder about just because it's such a good thing I'm scared of any chance of losing it.

I want to be able to believe everything someone says, because he's my best friend and he'd never lie to me, and he knows just what I need to hear.

I want what Stan has. I want to wear that contented smile that says he's got everything in the world and he knows it. I want those precious things he's spent a lifetime building, and will probably spend a lifetime enjoying. I want someone to crawl in bed with and tuck the covers around because it matters to me whether she's cold, a best friend who comes over so often he's comfortable talking about my girlfriend's tampons.

I want a reason to wake up every morning, a reason to be glad I can't seem to die forever. Something to hold onto, something to depend on. Just one thing, even. Stan has TWO. What did Stan do to deserve _everything_ I want?

I shuffle back into the living room after them, sit on the lumpy couch next to Cartman. He turns to me and furrows his eyebrow and pushes his headset off his ears.

"When did you get here, asshole?" he asks. I laugh; Cartman unknowingly acknowledges the thoughts that have been lodged in my throat all day.

"I've been here all day, dude," I tell him. My voice is casual, even though my lungs feel like they are being squeezed together. My own voice betrays me. I'm _invisible_.

"Like I give a crap," Cartman goes back to his game. Wendy's eyes cut through me from across the room; she never misses a thing, and I turn to face her penetrating expression. After a few seconds, I wink at her, just to throw her off.

Her eyebrow raises, and I know she isn't fooled. I feel my heart speed up, because just maybe, she'll say something, that magical something, that'll make me feel like someone's been paying attention, and I'm not so fucking alone it's like being trapped in a lead jar.

But Stan and Kyle sit back down, Stan's hand touches hers with quiet intention, and she turns away. Stan looks to Kyle one more time, and Kyle makes a "shooing gesture." Stan squares his shoulders, dips his head in Kyle's direction. He then takes Wendy by the hand and leads her out.

The one boy in South Park who was pussy enough to get Vaginitis has been brave where it matters. Wendy's overjoyed "Yes!" and Kyle's proud "Told you!" prove that Stan's been the smart one. He's invested his heart in the right places, and most of all, had the courage to pursue what he cares about, and now he has something _so good _I'm jealous enough that I can't see straight.

What he _has_ matters probably more than he knows. No wonder he's smiling.


	2. Assure Me

**Heyy there. Yes, Kenny's kind of bipolar. I swear it's canon though. Pesky pervert has a tortured soul—just ask Mysterion. Anyway, peace my friends.**

**I own a construction paper Kenny I made to guard my door, and a computer named Roberto, but I don't own South Park. **

**Lady Nightspike is my beta, and I'm lucky as heck to have her. Thanks, Lady: you truly and sincerely rock.**

_**For Caturday, always.**_

The grocery store's a shitty place to work for someone who can't really afford food.

Well, okay, it ain't so bad. It has its perks. I get to bring home the bruised fruit and dented cans, the bread they can't sell after it's been on the shelves for more than a day. My family eats way better since I got this job.

I stroll down the aisles whistling, hands behind my back as I check the labels to make sure no dumbass has screwed with the alphabetical order or turned the cans the wrong way. Rosita's Black Beans are my favorite, because the chick on the label is bang-a-licious. OH yes, I'll eat those beans ANY day. Arriba!

"Kenny, aisle five! Some kid puked up his alphabet soup, so you'll need a mop," Bebe looks oh-so-very important in her red manager vest. She runs her hands down the front of it and meets my eye. She's gloating. Whatever.

All I'm thinking is, goddamnit, why doesn't her highness put that crazy hair of hers to use and mop the floor herself?

"I cleaned up after exploding grape soda thing just this morning!"

"Yes you did," Bebe holds out a mop, "and you did it so well, that we've decided you get to be in charge of mopping duties from now on!" she grins as she taps the handle against my forehead. I take it from her, rolling my eyes.

"Whatever," I so don't have the energy to deal with her today.

"Don't forget to wax!" she calls cheerfully as I trudge towards the splattered mess, which, hey, what do you know, actually has alphabet letters floating around in it.

"Isn't that what Gary said after you blew him to get promoted to manager?"

Bebe's eyes narrow, but her face quickly shifts into a Cheshire cat smile. This is why I end up having to clean puke a lot around here.

"Once you get that puke off the floor, you can reorganize the produce section. We got some new rutabagas in, and the entire lettuce section needs to be moved down so we can fit them next to the avocados. Should only take an hour or so. You don't mind staying a bit over and closing do you?"

Bitch.

"Of course not," I say gallantly, and swirl the mop through the rancid mess on the floor, "in fact, nothing would please me more. Glad to know I'm good for something other than mopping." Bebe just smirks.

"Good." She flounces away, and I flip her off behind her turned back. I DATED that for almost six months. God, how did I even—?

She bends over to readjust a display of tangerines, and yeah, I remember how I put up with her attitude for as long as I did.

As I take the mop to the back to hose it off, I hear a familiar voice.

"All I'm saying is, if they made the players spontaneously explode for tea bagging over twelve times per kill, Halo would lose its entire twelve-year-old-boy fan base. And Cartman."

Stan and Kyle walk in, and head straight for the snack items isle. Kyle's been hooked on these all-natural-organic-bunny-shaped-gummies, and though we all rip on him endlessly for it, I don't really blame him. For a sugar-free food, they are pretty good. And the poor guy's gotta get enthusiastic about finding a candy that won't send him into a diabetic coma.

As Kyle gets his hands on a box of his first bunny-shaped steps away from manhood, he goes, "I just think Halo'd get a lot more serious players if they didn't let immature kids virtually wag their balls in your face a million times every time you die."

"Since when does having balls in their faces ever faze serious gamers?" I approach them with a grin, putting an arm around each of their shoulders.

"Hey, Kenny!" Stan laughs, and grabs a box of Gushers off the shelf to stick in the basket he's holding.

"Dude!" Kyle tries to put them back, "I can't eat those!"

"Dude, I can," Stan defends his Gushers by batting Kyle's hands away, "And I'm allergic to your fag-fruities. I need manly snacks!"

"They're delicious and adorable!" Kyle argues indignantly, holding the box close to his chest.

"Relax, Kyle," I laugh, clapping him on the back of the neck, "Stan's a vegetarian; he doesn't eat bunnies. More gay-pride gummies for you, right?"

Before Kyle can punch me, Bebe waltzes over to us wearing the expression of the stingray that killed the Crocodile Hunter.

"Hello, boys. Helping the customers out, Kenny?" she asks.

"Of course I am," I tell her patiently, "we were just comparing the merits of Gushers and Organic Bunny Gummies. I think our friends here were having trouble deciding between manhood and a life of wondering whether they are as pretty as their girlfriends."

"Fuck you, Kenny!" Kyle elbows my ribs, and Stan chuckles. Bebe puts a hand on her hip.

"Well, I hate to break up the sausage-party, but Kenny here has some vegetables to reorganize. Hop to it, Ken, or I'll have to report you for socializing when you're supposed to be working," she sounds way too cheery; nothing pleases Bebe more than being in charge. Too bad there are also few things that please me LESS than Bebe in charge. C'mon, you can't blame me. Last time she ran a committee, she ended up shooting me in the head.

I bid my dear friends farewell and leave them to their fruity little debate. Much as it sucks to work for Double-D's-of-Doom over there, I need the job. College ain't free, and if there's a hope of getting out of South Park, higher education's going to be my ticket.

That's right, I'm saving for a university. I'm transferring out of South Park Community College as soon as my two years are up. Where? I have no idea, but somewhere. Kenny McCormick's not going to be a poor fucker cursed with a life of generic-brand cereal three times a day. I swore to myself that I'm getting out of here, that I'd make more of my life than a welfare tragedy.

My brother has always been a prick, and good riddance, but one good thing came out of his presence in my life. He taught me exactly what I didn't want to be. I still remember the look on his face, anger twisting his features into a vicious snarl as two cops dragged him away by the arms. That desperation, he looked like an animal, cornered and fearful and dangerous…no. Never. I can't just sit around and wait to become another case of moneyless road kill. Take it from someone who knows. Being road kill sucks.

As I organize the produce, I think of my bright future, where I'm going to be once I get out of this shitty little town. I'm going to have it made someday. Be able to eat ANYTHING I want. Be able to walk into a grocery store and make Bebe run around getting my shit for me, instead of taking hers all day. It's more bearable to live like this when I can imagine getting out. It's more bearable when I remind myself I won't be stuck here forever. Someday, someday I'm going to be in charge of my own life. That's what I'm working towards, and if I have to mop up some puke to own the deed to my fate…bring on the pukage. Nothing's worse than having no future, than being held down by things you can't change.

"Hey, excuse me." I snap my head up to see Wendy standing behind me, holding a tomato.

"Can I help you?" I smile cheekily, "I offer service with a smile." Wendy rolls her eyes, and pushes the vegetable directly under my nose.

"I just wanted to know, is this organically grown?" she asks so seriously that I have to laugh at her.

"No, ma'am," I tip my invisible hat to her and drawl in my latent Southern accent, "all our tomatoes are synthesized from plastic bottles and then filled with rubber. But they're American made, so if you don't buy them, you're a filthy, eagle-hating Commie, and should probably be wrapped a Russian flag and burned at the stake to prevent the spread of your dirty socialist ways."

Wendy gives me a very sarcastic look and lowers the tomato.

"And do you know whether they spray these rubber tomatoes with pesticides or hormonally alter them?"

"No need. Bugs are allergic to Red-White-and-Blue," I nod proudly. Wendy sighs.

"Okay, I'll go ask someone else then."

Another day…another $43.50. Yay minimum wage.

I walk home. It is six o'clock at the end of the summer. I am tired, but the day's over now. Sun slants down the sidewalks, dry as bone, glinting sunlight off the flat cement surfaces, so bright I can't look at them directly. I look up to the fluttering red-and-white striped overhang above me as I stroll down the shop fronts. Chin tilted towards fabric filtering heavy, insistent light, I let my lids fall shut. The sidewalks will lead me home.

The rushing roar of cars on the streets before me sends gusts of hot air whooshing over me. The dull silence as the engine's thunder trails off into the distance creates a numb spot in my thoughts. That lull, that moment of quiet is enough to break open the silence of my mind. Thinking too much gets me lost; generally I avoid it, just ask my mother. But now, behind the warm, dull red of my eyelids and between the gusting puffs of the moving cars, I wander. I can't always forget.

It's a funny thing, where the mind goes once I loosen the tight grip I keep on those memories and places I'll miss if I remember. I don't want to remember all the time. It's too heavy to carry everything around like that, to keep the past close enough to taste and blend with the flavors of the present. I'd rather be a purist, sort these things into compartments, like drawers I can close and never look at again if I don't want to. But today the heat seeps memories through my pores, and I find my skin alive and crawling with those dangerous, quiet kind of thoughts that remind me behind closed eyes of what I can never un-see or want to.

_Legs, long and crossed beneath her, I start with those. At the tips of her toes I begin, drinking in her tiny red toenails, the leather straps of her sandals. The place where her ankle tapers, the slope of her calf, the round bump of her knee. Then the hem of her skirt, slipping off the top of her thigh, vibrant and blue against her skin. Her hips and waist, circled with a wide black tie, her jacket crossed over her torso. I let my gaze linger over her arms, down to her hands folded like a paper napkin over her right upper leg. The golden cloud of her hair, swiped behind her ears, floating over her shoulders, streaming down her back, falling all around her face, she is set in a river of marigold-curls. And finally her eyes; at last, I let myself find her eyes, that hazy green-brown stare set in freckles, those twisted crimson lips quirked just-that-way…_

_I move to sit beside her, but I don't touch her. It is enough to be near, for now. I watch those eyes; once I start I can never look away. I have to savor everything that comes before meeting her eyes, because when I do I can't ever see anything else._

I drift through memories bright enough to make me squint, small and tangible and tasting of a different Barbara Stevens than the one I know now. This girl is precious, sacred almost. This is the secret Barbara Stevens I miss. Not the bossy pair of tits I work for at the grocery store; the girl that I lost my heart to in the fall doesn't exist anymore. I try not to remember her that way. The Bebe I see at work doesn't resemble her at all.

But now, I let myself remember. I remember her lips as we sat in her beat up Chevy on Thursday afternoons. The tendrils of smoke curling around her laughing red mouth, the way her lips pursed around the cylinder tucked loosely between her fingers. Her lipstick smudged her cigarette where her lips touched paper: her prints left on what she used until it burned down to her fingers.

The way the smoke settled into her, deepened her laugh, made her eyes hazy; I remember the moment where she handed me my first joint. That smell, the way it feels when it hits you and you're floating; they call it getting high because you don't feel the gravity holding you to the earth any longer. I remember her smirk when it made me cough. I remember red lips twisted and soft as I choked on the fumes filling my lungs. Her eyes were hazel when she was watching me, hazel when the lights were low and the city below us was reflected in tiny points of light in her irises. Hazel set with the lights from afar, gazing into the space between my thoughts from behind a curling veil of smoke. And I never knew if I was high from the pot, or just from the way she was looking at me.

I have a drawer of notes that she left me. She would stick them to my textbooks, my bedroom door, my shoes. They say things like this:

"Shake the stardust from your eyes, lover. Tonight I want you on earth with me."

"Saw that you got mauled by a flamingo today. Ouch. Don't worry, I'll kiss it better."

"Woke up this morning. It was cold. Wish you were there."

"Miss you, Ken."

I wonder if I'll ever be able to empty that drawer.

I reach my home and collapse on the couch. I turn the fuzzy TV up so loudly I can't hear my own thoughts anymore. I never let myself reminisce for too long. In the morning, I'll buy a padlock. If I can't forget her, at least I'll keep her drawer closed.

\\\

"Ugh, get a room," Cartman groans. We were all invited to Stan's house warming party for his first apartment. Correction, his and Wendy's new apartment. I wonder; is she picking up half the rent?

All I know is, I blew off work to help my good pals get settled, so there'd better at least be pizza.

"This IS our room," Wendy points out, "you can leave if we're offending you." Gotta give her props, at least, for putting Cartman in his place.

But though I hate to agree with the fatass on ANYTHING, I have to here. Wendy and Stan are nauseating. Really, if you've never been around one of those couples, the kind that fills a room with enough sugary goop and fluff to absolutely choke on…you're gonna have to trust me. It's gross.

Of course, they ignore the fact that us red-blooded males are becoming increasingly ill every time they do that stupid butterfly kiss thing. People in love should definitely be euthanized.

"Stanny," of course, she even has revolting nicknames for him, "come help me move this box?" And of course, he trots off after her like a puppy after a pat on the head. Oh Stan, please just turn in your Man Card now.

"Sure thing, babe," he doesn't even hesitate because he's in front of his dudes. He's THAT whipped.

"Hey Stan," I lean back on the couch Kyle and I just spent an hour getting into the living room, "what's it like to be the woman in a relationship?"

"Shut up!" Stan yells from the other room, "…hey, Wendy! Where do you want me to put this box of clothes?"

We crack up, make a few more jokes at Stan's expense, and eventually, Kyle and I get up to help them move their shit around. Cartman even helps out in his own way. He gets the TV and Playstation hooked up and then starts a game of Call of Duty.

"Want a soda?" Wendy calls from the kitchen; "we have Orange Sunkist, if you guys want that."

"Hell yeah, bring on the beverages, woman!" I command from on top of a set of shelves. What am I doing up there, you may ask? I have no idea. It looked climb-able, so I climbed.

She does, and I come off my perch to take it from her. Though I'm pretty sure she shook my can, because it fizzes over and splashes all over me as soon as I crack it open.

"You evil plot to stain my clothing has been foiled, Wendy darling," I say, blotting my parka with a napkin, "I'm already wearing orange." She ignores me and takes a seat next to Stan, snuggling into his chest.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmurs from under his chin. Sigh, what I have no idea about is why girls are so into the cuddlefests. Personally, I can only endure cuddling if neither of us is clothed. I decide to turn my attention to more interesting things.

First I look to Cartman. "DIE FUCKER! EAT SHIT AND DIE!" he jams his fat fingers into the buttons and wears a terrifying expression as he pummels the controller, eyes bugging out at the screen.

Nope, not interesting either.

So, then I look over at Kyle, who is sitting by himself and looking like one unhappy camper.

"You've been quiet, Kyle," I observe. He's gazing at the window, but it really doesn't look like he's paying attention to what he sees, "what's up with you, bro?"

Kyle shakes his head and offers me a smile that shows me once and for all that Cartman is right: Jews are terrible actors.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Well, it is.

"Leave it," he shakes his head and sends me a warning look, "I'm just tired." I put my hands up in a sign of surrender. Then turn to Stan.

"You two better let up on all the sugary crap," I tell him, "I think it's making Kyle's diabetes act up."

"You guys just don't understand," Stan is completely gone at this point. He's using his quiet voice, almost reverent. He strokes the back of Wendy's head, pulls her closer. She sighs and curls herself more tightly into him.

"Ay!" Cartman looks up from his game and hits pause, "I have a girlfriend too, and you don't see me acting like such a god damned pussy!"

"That's because your girlfriend is my sister!" Stan looks a bit horrified with the idea.

"Well, if you asked me, which by the way, no one did, and they totally _should, _'cause I'm awesome…love is overrated," I say as I put my feet up on the coffee table, and then continue, "it de-manifies men, and gives girls an excuse to steal all your money." I raise my can of soda; truer words were never spoken.

And then Stan looks at me, way serious.

"No, it's not," he says, lacing his fingers with Wendy's as he speaks, "love is the best thing that's ever happened to me." I look at Kyle, still sulking and glaring out the window, and to Wendy, who's hiding her face in Stan's t-shirt.

You sure about that, man?

"Well, I'm happy for you then."


End file.
